Page 88 of Embers of Midnight
Darian ties an apron around my waist with a double knot that will not fail mid-frosting because he would never. He checks the oven temp because left to their own devices, ovens lie. He is a man at war with variables. I consider kissing him for it and settle for a grateful look.
Caelum leans hip to island, cutting parchment to fit pans with small, exact motions. He hums one clean bar—the same one he uses when my pulse runs—and lets it fade. The room catches the note and holds it without making a thing of it.
Ash narrates the process like a sports commentator with a pastry fetish. “We sift. We fold. We do not overmix, because gluten has opinions and we don’t need them today.” He bumps my elbow with his. “Taste?” He lifts the whisk. I put my mouth on it, shameless. He grins like a boy who did not grow up in a house where joy was rationed.
Ronan handles the oven ballet. Sheets in, rotate at the half, test with a skewer. He does not waste motion. He also does not hover over me like I might crumble if watched. He finds the clean line between oversight and trust and stands on it like he was born there.
Between steps, Darian drags the evidence folder onto the corner of the island and adds a new bag: post residue, east ring, time stamp, K. Holt initialing with tidy print. Laz will love the handwriting. I do too. Paper cuts kill empires, Ash likes to say. I want this empire to bleed out of boredom.
We frost the cooled layers with a knife that actually obeys. Ash lets me do the last pass and doesn’t correct my swirl even thoughI know he could. It comes out clean enough that the part of me that likes winning unclenches.
“Speech,” he declares, when the cake sits whole. “Short, rude, honest.”
I snort. “I didn’t set anything on fire outside of the assigned parameters. I didn’t swing after a halt. I didn’t let anyone borrow my breath. I did not die. I will now eat cake and refuse to apologize for any noises my mouth makes.”
Ash raises a fork like a toast. “To boringly excellent footwork and the weaponization of documentation.”
We eat at the counter because we are heathens and because chairs feel too formal for icing. The first bite lands like relief with sugar on it. Ronan watches my face the way you watch a stove the first time you light it in winter. He relaxes when I make the noise I always make when my mouth is happy. Caelum leans on his elbows and steals my second bite with unrepentant eyes. Darian puts a glass of water by my elbow and I drink it without thinking.
“Tomorrow,” Ash says through crumb, “we nap. Then we do nothing loudly.”
“Training,” Darian counters, because of course. “Morning.”
Ash makes a wounded noise. “Fine. We train boringly well, then we do nothing loudly.”
“Balance,” Caelum says, and taps the counter twice, then the long third. My breath slides under it without effort. The day unknots in small, measurable increments.
After dishes—Ronan at the sink, me with the towel, Ash turning drying into a show until Darian clips him with a dishcloth—someone finds music, low and easy. Vex swoops through, lands on the fruit bowl, and steals a grape without shame. Morrow noses my thigh until I scratch the angle of his jaw that makes his eyes go soft. Silks peeks out from Ash’s sleeve and flicks her tongue against my knuckle once, cool and grounding, then disappears.
I slip upstairs for a shower because sweat plus frosting is a texture no one deserves. The bracelet warms under water like it knows it’s supposed to live on me. The thread stays light against my pulse. When I come back down, the house smells like sugar and dish soap and the good kind of tired.
We don’t make speeches. We don’t invent a ritual. We sit in the living room with the lights low. I stretch my legs over Darian’s lap because it’s where they want to be; he rubs a thumb behind my knee without making it a thing. Ash sprawls on the floor and tells a story about the squid-shaped charades trophy like he didn’t already tell it last week. I laugh anyway, because he wants to hear it. Caelum has his violin out but doesn’t play; he polishes a string with a cloth like he’s giving his hands a job so his brain will rest. Ronan does the thing where he reads a book and still sees the room. He looks at me once. I look back. It’s simple. It’s enough.
The week tried to teach me I’m a problem. Today I demonstrated that I can be an answer without fireworks. The difference isn’t sexy. It’s mine.
Phone buzz. Group chat.
Taya: you were so calm i hate you (jk). proud. fries tomorrow on me.
Laz: frost residue bagged. label: “incompetent gremlin’s attempt #4.”
Kieran: good axis work. celebrate. (this is me being effusive.)
Nyra: you owe me a cake slice. i know where you live.
I send back a photo of Ash’s cake with my fork stabbed in it like a flag. Then I put the phone down and let my body go heavy against the couch and the people who have decided I belong here.
Tomorrow will bring something—class, training, another note, a watcher leaning on a fence pretending to be a hedge. I’ll breathe. I’ll keep the file. I’ll keep the bracelet on and the thread and the promise under my tongue that I won’t get small just because someone asked nicely.
Tonight we eat cake.
Pyrelight is Born
Seraphina
Breakfast starts with me losing an argument I didn’t agree to have.
“I’m going to Prime with Taya and Laz,” I say, fork in the air like that helps.
